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    Star Trek: The Next Generation: Sins of Commission
    Star Trek: The Next Generation: Sins of Commission
    Star Trek: The Next Generation: Sins of Commission
    Ebook308 pages4 hours

    Star Trek: The Next Generation: Sins of Commission

    By Susan Wright

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    SINS OF COMMISSION

    while on a misssion to save the planet Lessenar from environmental collapse, the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise is crippled by an emotional onslaught as the surviving aliens respond in anger and pain to the death of their comrade.

    Worf must overcome this alien influence and find the true killer with the destruction of the Starship Enterprise, the survival of Lessenar, and his Klingon honor hanging in the balance....
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPocket Books/Star Trek
    Release dateSep 22, 2000
    ISBN9780743421126
    Star Trek: The Next Generation: Sins of Commission
    Author

    Susan Wright

    Susan Wright is the spokesperson for the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom. In that capacity she has appeared on the Fox Network’s The O'Reilly Factor and Hannity & Colmes, as well as on various programs such as NBC’s Dateline, and others on CNN, CNN Headline News, ABC, NBC and FOX affiliates in New York, St. Louis, Chicago, and more.

    Read more from Susan Wright

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      Book preview

      Star Trek - Susan Wright

      Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-one

      Chapter Twenty-two

      Chapter Twenty-three

      Chapter Twenty-four

      Acknowledgments

      Thanks and appreciation go to Jeff Artemis-Gomez for helping me get it right;

      To Jerry Schneiderman, Jonathan Frater, and Keith A.D. Post for technical support and encouragement;

      And to my ST:TNG experts, Kevin Ryan and John Ordover.

      Chapter One

      BEGIN PROGRAM, Captain Picard ordered.

      Murmurs rose, excited yet subdued, as if anticipation had taken a form of its own.

      The sound engulfed him, sweeping him out into the enormous room as his eyes followed the ascent of the silver chandeliers, slowly soaring toward the ceiling, incandescent with the fire of hundreds of slender yellow candles.

      Picard walked forward, his hands lifting slightly from his sides as if to embrace it all. The curved wooden stage stood before him, mostly hidden by long curtains of crinkled crimson velvet. All around, back, behind, and above him, were the tiers of boxes, shadowed and draped with shimmering gold and red in the finest theatrical tradition. Yet there was also a grace of architecture more reminiscent of the organic revival of the twenty-third century than the boxy wooden amphitheaters this structure was patterned on.

      That was the way of improvement—someone took an idea and reinterpreted it using innovations that had been developed, whether it was stronger materials or a new way of presenting a story. The difficulty was maintaining the integrity of the original while enhancing it with the new. In Picard’s opinion, that’s exactly what Barclay had done with this play, Cyrano de Bergerac. Even the clothing of the cast wasn’t quite seventeenth century but a mélange of synthetic fibers combined with classical restraints and ornamented by dark glowing jewels. Strands of sparkling gold and pearls were laced through the women’s hair and hung around their throats on intricate chains, while the men wore embroidered scabbards, with the filigree handguards often held by a deceptively casual hand.

      The program was running—Picard could see the thief and Christian over to one side. He could have chosen to view the scene from a box or the top of the stairs, but instead he moved among the crowd of men who mingled on the bare floor of the theater. Known as the pit, the floor didn’t have seats like the boxes that surrounded them.

      Picard quickly scanned the boxes and located the holographic image of Dr. Beverly Crusher, dressed in the palest of sea green gowns that shimmered like ice when she moved. Her vibrant red hair was pulled up to one side and back, with a cascade of large curls falling down to brush one bare shoulder as she turned her head to speak to du Guiche. Unlike the other women, she wore small white flowers in her hair, not jewels. Barclay had designed her costume as well as the set.

      Picard took a deep breath, clasping his hands behind him, smiling and at ease for a rare moment. Barclay had become more than a genius when his brain was enhanced by the alien probe they encountered at the Argus Array. Picard considered it fortunate that Barclay had been involved in a production of Cyrano de Bergerac when the contact had been made. Picard agreed with most critics that the essence of Rostand’s French verse had never been fully captured in English. Yet Barclay had translated it offhandedly one night, complete with the production notes and set design. When Beverly read it, she had insisted his version be performed right then and there.

      This was a recording of that performance. Ensign Barclay and Dr. Crusher had been the only two actors in the midst of computer-generated simulations.

      As Picard mingled among the men in the pit, he listened to the progress of the play. Barclay as Cyrano called out his challenge from above, and various voices around him responded, Oh, is it Cyrano? Sh! The play! The play!

      Picard didn’t listen to the words so much as Barclay’s assured, measured tones. And he didn’t see Barclay. It was Cyrano de Bergerac.

      Suddenly Cyrano leaped from a box above, landing with a subtle flourish as if to say such a deed was no effort to him. A young blood sitting behind Beverly jumped up and swaggered down the stairs to face Cyrano, his nose tilted as if he smelled something not quite to his liking. He challenged, Sir! I do say, your . . . nose is rather large.

      Rather. Cyrano lifted a brow slightly. Is that all?

      All?

      Picard walked closer as Cyrano gravely removed his gloves. My dear boy, you’ve squandered an opportunity! Here among the expectant crowd, what more perfect place to display your wit and style? He shrugged, addressing his friends who were standing near. Why, the possibilities abound. . . . This young man could have expressed his disgust—if that is what he intended to convey—with a sneer, ‘ ’Tis a misfortune indeed to be born with a nose like that, but if it were I, then I would have it no longer!’

      A laugh rose around them at the double entendre. Cyrano swept his hand in the air, stilling the sound. But perhaps he is not so bold? A more timid soul would slyly suggest, ‘Need you a wider glass for your wine, sir?’ But then again, one could simply describe the monstrosity, as if it were separate from the human within it—‘Look!’ Cyrano exclaimed in mock horror, pointing one finger as the other attempted to hide his large, uptilted nose. ’Tis a deformed—’

      Picard’s communicator chittered.

      He tapped his comm badge, allowing the program to continue. Picard here.

      Captain, came the softly accented voice of his ship’s counselor. May I join you on the holodeck?

      Certainly, Counselor.

      Picard turned to the rear of the theater in time to see the huge door materialize. Deanna Troi smiled as she stepped inside. Even relaxed, she held her back perfectly straight, and every long curl was immaculately in place.

      "Ah! Cyrano de Bergerac." Her smile deepened. Again? I thought you viewed this play just a few weeks ago.

      Picard raised his brows, but the counselor apparently knew him well enough to make light of the professional edge to her question.

      Barclay’s interpretation is a remarkable achievement, Picard said, excusing his interest. This play has traditionally been considered more artifice than art—theatrics rather than poetry. But what Barclay has done here, he said, glancing up at the theater again, caught once more by the candle flames and tiny flashes of light that danced off the chandeliers, is show us it is our own limitations that shape us, with Cyrano the embodiment of the superficial—a man so concerned with his appearance that he won’t tell a woman he loves her, so concerned with independence that he seeks out enemies to prove he’s no man’s lackey. This polishes perversity until it rings a tone as pure as church bells.

      Troi clasped her hands behind her back as she looked around the holodeck theater. Cyrano was finishing his monologue, his voice rising and falling as he built to his denouement.

      I remember the first time I saw Barclay’s version. It was breathtaking. She looked back at Picard. But I’m sorry to interrupt, Captain. I thought you would be through by now.

      Picard nodded shortly. I’ve seen it once already. Computer end—

      This is your second viewing today? she interrupted, a considering glint in her eyes.

      Right in front of them, Cyrano began the Ballade of the Duel between Monsieur de Bergerac and an Idiot in the Theatre de Bourgogne. As he composed the first stanza, he threw back his cloak and drew his sword.

      Picard gestured. This is the scene I wanted to see.

      The blades of the foils met with a light clash, then began to etch intricate silver arcs in the air as the two men fenced.

      He’s very good, Troi said, with a nod at Barclay.

      Yes, the choreography is superb. But it’s in the way he concentrates on the composition of the poem—see there?—rather than the actual duel that makes this scene so powerful. It reveals an even deeper mastery of the blade.

      I think I understand. She nodded, as if fitting a puzzle together. For you, Cyrano de Bergerac embodies the Gallic temperament with all its refinements and accomplishments.

      Panache, Picard said, more to himself than Troi.

      Yes, the perfect Frenchman, isn’t he? Forceful, flamboyant, and lively, yet tender when it’s called for. Expert at fencing with both swords and words. And you find that fascinating because this is your ancestry—

      End program, Picard said.

      The theater dissolved into a large black cube, bisected by a glowing yellow grid. The transition was startling—Barclay’s Theatre de Bourgogne had become that real.

      Troi sighed in disappointment. I was enjoying that.

      Yes, well, Picard said with a slight smile, glad there was such a thing as captain’s prerogative so he could end discussions if he wished. You wanted to see me, Counselor?

      Troi immediately returned to business. Yes, Sir. I’d like to give you my report now, if I could.

      He nodded. Certainly. We’re not due to arrive at Lessenar for another hour.

      As they started toward the door, Troi added, I’m going to try to talk to Worf during our regularly scheduled time. He’s been hard to get hold of lately.

      Picard examined her more carefully. Is there a problem with our security chief, Counselor?

      The holodeck doors opened with a reverberating clang. Two crew members in gray coveralls were passing by.

      Troi smiled and nodded at them. But her smile faded as she joined the captain by his side, pacing silently down the corridor to the turbolift.

      I’m not certain, she said, finally looking up again. He’s a little like our friend Cyrano. Brave, confident, proud . . .

      Picard nodded. There’s nothing of concern in that.

      Troi waited until the doors closed on them and Picard gave the order for the bridge.

      No, she said, impatience creeping into her tone. It’s the other qualities—oh, like being stubborn and compulsive—that cause problems.

      Picard nodded thoughtfully, remembering Worf’s latest security report. It had been much longer than usual, and had included a number of rather insignificant incidents to support Worf’s contention that security procedures were too lax on board the Enterprise. Yet Picard hadn’t completely discounted the report when he read it, thinking that Worf’s intuition could be telling him something that the facts had not conveyed.

      Now, as he silently waited out the turbolift ride, preferring to discuss the matter in private, Picard acknowledged that anything concerning the ship’s security was worth an in-depth inquiry. He straightened his shoulders, his rare hour of relaxation over. It was back to being the captain of a Galaxy-class starship, responsible for over a thousand crew members and their families.

      Chapter Two

      IS THERE ANYTHING in particular that has you worried? the captain asked her.

      Deanna accepted the hot cup of tea, tucking one leg under her. The sofa in the ready room was surprisingly comfortable.

      No, she said slowly, taking a sip of her tea. It’s just that a lot of little things seem to be adding up lately.

      Little things? The captain sat down across from her, holding his own clear cup.

      Yes. I accessed Worf’s latest security report. She wondered how many of the section heads knew that in addition to periodic consultations and her Betazoid empathic talents, she used their reports as a barometer of their emotional state. Counseling wasn’t all just empathic sensations—she needed background, too. Without realizing it, she sat up straighter, confident of her assessment of Worf.

      Picard cleared his throat, surprising her by agreeing.

      Worf’s report did seem odd.

      Deanna gave him a quick look. She should have known the captain wouldn’t have let something like this slip by him.

      Then you see what I mean, she said. Lately he’s been hard on his security crew, more severe than necessary, I think. People need positive reinforcement, but Worf seems to have forgotten that.

      Do you know what might be causing this?

      Deanna sighed. I hate to say it, but I think Alexander’s presence in his life is making Worf question himself. Worf grew up thinking he was pure Klingon—remember when he first came on board? He constantly denied there was any trace of human influence in his behavior. But now he’s had the chance to see how different he is from other Klingons, and his son leans even more toward human values.

      The captain frowned thoughtfully. I thought Worf had come to accept his unique upbringing.

      It’s an ongoing process. When new things challenge our concept of who and what we are, it can raise new questions. Or, she told him with a shrug, Worf could simply be experiencing some sort of backlash from the sudden change of Alexander coming into his life. You know, Worf didn’t choose this lifetime commitment—it was handed to him. She ducked her head slightly, wishing she understood Worf better. But she tried to suppress the desire, aware that it was only her exaggerated sense of professional perfectionism that was bothering her. I can’t be sure until he talks to me. His aggressive reactions sometimes distort the empathic signals I receive from him.

      A note of curiosity crept into the captain’s voice. What about Alexander?

      He trusts me, so it’s not difficult to sense how he feels. She shook her head. And Alexander is confused. On the one hand, Worf is doing everything he can to encourage him to be a little warrior. But he won’t let Alexander challenge his authority on anything. Nothing. Worf thinks his word should be law, and he’s always talking about discipline and self-control. Alexander sees the other children are encouraged to just have fun.

      You seriously think the root of all this lies in his son?

      Worf is watching Alexander growing up and having to choose between two very disparate cultures. The echoes could be distressing to Worf.

      The captain clinked his cup against the saucer as he shifted, reminding Deanna how much he disliked anything that seemed to be prying into his crew’s private lives.

      I wouldn’t bring this to your attention, Captain, unless I believed it was affecting Worf’s performance as security chief.

      "Yes, I’ll keep in mind that he may be more on edge than usual. But I don’t see a real danger to Enterprise security in this."

      At this point, I’m more worried about his security officers than him. Deanna smiled at him. And Alexander.

      Yes, he’s filed dozens of reprimands in his last report. I’m sure morale in security is very low. Picard set down his cup and picked up his padd, making a notation. I’ll speak to Worf about pending some of the more minor ones. Have you any other suggestions?

      I’ll continue to try to talk to him informally. You know that Worf discontinued Alexander’s counseling sessions. We barely managed to work out a preliminary communication process between them, and not much more than that, I’m afraid. She tightened her lips, again working to keep the self-reproach out of her voice. If Alexander’s erratic behavior continues, the teachers will eventually log a request that he and Worf return to therapy. But therapy won’t be productive if Worf doesn’t actively cooperate, and putting a request on permanent file will make him resent it even more.

      So we’ll keep it unofficial for now. Very good. If it makes him rein in harder on his staff for a time, well, that may be beneficial in the long run.

      Deanna consulted her own padd. The rest of my weekly report is fairly routine. I’ve put it on file for you to read later. But there is one matter we need to discuss about Medical Technician Tarses.

      The captain nodded slightly. Our half-Romulan, uncovered during the drumhead session with Admiral Satie. His probation recently ended, did it not?

      It’s one quarter, really. Deanna knew the captain had had a special interest in Simon Tarses ever since they both had been accused of treason by Admiral Satie, and Simon’s lie about his Vulcan ancestry had been discovered. "Yes, your recommendation for probation rather than dismissal from Starfleet has helped him come to terms with this. But now that his probation is over, he’s requesting a transfer off the Enterprise."

      Picard looked up, his forehead creased. Where would he like to go?

      Almost anywhere. His main concern seems to be to get off this ship. Deanna considered her words carefully. Empathic knowledge was such an intangible quality that it was sometimes difficult to convey without going too deeply into specifics. I think he’s trying to run from something in himself.

      You’d like me to deny his transfer request?

      Yes, sir. It would give me another quarter to work with him.

      The captain stood up, thoughtfully walking over to the tall window next to his desk. He gazed out for a moment. Are you certain you’re not reading too much into his request, Counselor?

      Tarses still feels isolated and distrusted, and it would confirm his worst fears if we let him go now. He has developed a few friendships—Guinan being one. Deanna paused, taking in the considering tilt of Picard’s head. And I think continuity is what he needs at this point, so he can deal with the real issues at hand.

      The captain met her eyes again. Agreed, then. I’ll deny the transfer request, but—he raised a hand—you’ll be the one to inform him of why.

      Yes, sir. She went to the dispenser, setting down her cup and absently watching it disappear. I’ll go right now.

      Thank you for your report, Counselor.

      Deanna nodded as she left the ready room, stepping out onto the bridge.

      Immediately she was hit by the increased air of anticipation. There was always this feeling at the start of a mission, and for the Lessenar project, Picard had put Commander Riker in charge. Riker was sitting stiffly upright in the captain’s chair—taking his command seriously. He was reading the tactical console in the armrest.

      Deanna glanced up at the viewscreen, but they still weren’t in range of the planet. That explained why she felt Will’s tension so clearly. He wasn’t comfortable with inactivity.

      As she walked toward the ramp, Riker glanced up. Neither smiled, but their eyes met and held for a moment.

      Deanna paused when she reached the top of the ramp. Worf was still at his station, and he barely nodded a greeting to her before looking back down at his tactical panel.

      Isn’t your shift over, Worf? she quietly asked, trying not to disturb the hushed atmosphere.

      Worf’s rumbling voice seemed deeper than usual. We arrive at Lessenar in thirty-two minutes.

      But you’ve already completed your shift, Worf. I’m sure this mission isn’t that delicate. She stepped closer, noting the other officers’ interest. Why don’t you let Ensign de Groodt take over?

      Worf’s jaw moved as if he was clenching his teeth. I will remain at my station.

      Deanna hesitated, but she had to say, You have other obligations, Worf.

      I am on duty, Counselor! Worf didn’t look at her, and his lips barely moved.

      Deanna tried to control a surge of exasperation as Worf returned to his readouts, ignoring her. She took a deep, calming breath, shaking her head as she walked toward the turbolift. She turned, facing back out at the busy bridge crew as the doors closed in front of her. She hoped her talk with Technician Tarses would be a little more successful.

      * * *

      Come in.

      The silver door slid aside to reveal Tarses in his austere blue-and-gray rooms. His quarters were on Deck 13, on the underside of the saucer section, so he had only two windows in the main room. They were slanted out from the floor, in the opposite direction of those in Deanna’s quarters. Deanna liked looking down onto the starfield for a change, though it made some people uncomfortable, as if they were falling into space. Other than the stars, there wasn’t much else to look at in Tarses’ quarters. There was a thick glass bowl on the table and a similar glass vase resting on the ledge. She reminded herself that Tarses had been on probation practically since he joined Starfleet, and hadn’t had a chance to go on shore leaves and acquire souvenirs like the other crew members. But the barren, impersonal quality of his rooms still bothered her.

      When he saw her, Tarses sat forward in his low, comfortable chair, holding his Vulcan lyrette in one hand and a small plectrum in the other. Counselor Troi, I thought it would be you.

      Don’t get up, she said with a smile. I’d like to hear one of your songs.

      Tarses glanced away. A deep line appeared between his brows. That’s all right. You don’t have to.

      I’d be honored. Deanna sat down on the sofa, rubbing her palms across the rough, nubby weave.

      His shoulders moved uneasily under his blue tunic, and he passed the triangular plectrum from one hand to the other. He didn’t quite meet her eyes. You’re just being nice.

      So humor me. Deanna leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. She’d sit there all night if she had to.

      Tarses pressed his lips together, bending his head over his lyrette. A chord and a few notes began a stumbling melody, as erratic and fanciful as a sun-shower.

      Deanna watched Tarses carefully. He was a good-looking young man with dark hair and slightly pointed ears, hunching protectively over the lyrette. He hasn’t quite mastered his instrument yet, Deanna thought, but he certainly has a passion for music.

      When the song trailed off uncertainly, Tarses lifted his head. I’m not done with it yet.

      That was quite pretty. The harmonies are influenced by Vulcan meters, aren’t they?

      Yes. He blinked up at her, nervously passing the plectrum from hand to hand. You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?

      Deanna drew in her breath, trying not to let him see that she was steeling herself. She liked him, and he took things so hard. Yes.

      He bit his lip, making himself meet her eyes. "Did

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